


another party.

by iStuhler



Series: dancing in the dark. [1]
Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iStuhler/pseuds/iStuhler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow it’s not a surprise to you when a man rings at your front door and informs you that Gatsby wants you at his party. Right now.</p><p>A Great Gatsby rewrite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another party.

Another party. Another day. He’s always got something going on.

You find it strange, not because he’s your neighbor, no. Because sometimes you think, and you can’t even fathom how one man knows that many people from that many different walks of life. You see people come up to his doors that you’ve seen in movies, in plays on Broadway; following them are the ordinary people that you’d never expect Jay Gatsby to know.

Somehow it’s not a surprise to you when a man rings at your front door and informs you that Gatsby wants you at his party. Right now.

 

*

 

You and Gatsby haven’t spoken much, only once when the two of you happened to be in the yard once at the same time when you stepped out to smoke a cigar. He had come up to you and shaken your hand, introduced himself, then wandered back to his porch and dropped down into a chair, staring across the Long Island Sound.

He hadn’t made conversation, so you figured that that was that, and so you stamped out your cigar and made your way back inside.

 

*

 

You walk across the lawn to the party, feeling awkward and presumptuous as you just sit down at a table in the corner, alone. Your loneliness is soon breached by a crowd of people who sit down at the table with you. You’re sure they’re drunk, judging by the loud and obnoxious belches of one of the men and the brackish laughter of the woman on your right. You don’t move though, no matter how much the company irks you, because they’re the only people at this party that you have somewhat of a familiarity with.

You light up a cigar and turn away from the people at your table, when you see Jay Gatsby alone, standing out on his dock. Your curiosity piques and you stand up to walk down the grassy lawn towards the pier. When your shoes hit the wooden planks of the dock, Gatsby turns around.

“Oh-- you surprised me… Nick Carraway, that you?”

You nod. “Yes,” you say, and you take a breath of your cigar.

Gatsby gives you a smile. “You came,” he says, and his voice sounds surprised.

“Yes I did,” you agree, “you invited me, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes. I suppose I did.” Gatsby turns back to the Sound. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

You pause, hesitant.

Gatsby laughs. “Of course you’re not,” he says, and then he laughs. “Nobody ever does. They come for the alcohol, the free food, and the company, and nothing else. That’s all that matters now, isn’t it?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t come for those things,” you say.

“What did you come for, then?” Gatsby turns around to look at you.

“You invited me,” you say simply.

Gatsby cocks his head for a second, and then he laughs. The sweet sound carries across the air but threatens to be lost in the din from the party.

“Why are you here?” you ask. “It’s your party, why aren’t you up there with them? They’re your guests…”

Gatsby scoffs. “I didn’t invite half of those people,” he says, and then he gestures with his arm. “People know people who know other people, and then they just… come to the party. It gets wildly out of hand, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Besides, I enjoy the company.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t look like you’re enjoying the company if you’re all the way out here.”

Gatsby sighs and turns back to the Sound. “Is it that obvious?”

You nod, and even though he can’t hear you, Gatsby understands.

 

*

 

Every time Gatsby has a party now, the same butler shows up at your door with a handwritten invitation to Gatsby’s party, and every time you attend, you find Gatsby on that dock, waiting for you. You share with him your cigars and the two of you talk for hours until all of the unwanted guests leave, and then you go home.

This party finds you once again at that same table in the corner, and over the fat man to your left’s shiny bald head you look around for Gatsby, who’s not at the pier. The woman to your right starts up a conversation and you find yourself enjoying it until you look up and your eyes meet a familiar pair of brown orbs across the yard.

He weaves his way through the crowd, headed in your direction. You turn to your right and murmur a quick excuse to the woman. Then you stand up and start walking towards him. When the two of you meet in the middle, he takes your elbow in his strong hands and steers you down, away from the party and all of the festive lights, down towards the dock where his hydroplane sits in the water. Once your feet hit the planking of the dock, he turns to you with a wan smile on his face.

"I'm not going to be around forever," he says, and for a minute you think he's going to sit down right there on the dock and ruin his white suit.

You nod, and he turns to look off somewhere in the distance. "You," he starts, but then it seems as if he's lost in thought. You walk to stand behind him, your hands come up to rest on his biceps tentatively. "I'm glad you're here, Nick," he says, "I think I'd be a lost and forgotten man without you."

 

*

 

The party ends and the guests go home, but you stay.

Midnight finds you and Gatsby still by the Sound, smoking the remnants of cigars. The wind starts picking up, but it’s a warm wind that feels like a blanket. The two of you have forgotten about cleanliness and have long since been laid out on the dock, legs crossed and heads back against the wood.

Gatsby turns his head to look at you, and you mirror his movement. “Nick,” he says, “why are you still here?”

You take a breath from your cigar. “Because you’re such good company,” you say.

Gatsby shakes his head. “No I’m not,” he insists, “I’m not good company at all. I know that’s not the real reason.”

You sigh and look up at the stars in the sky, your eyes falling instantly to familiar constellations. “Because--” you start to say, but you’re cut off with the feel of warm lips on yours. And something about it just feels so right, so you don’t pull away, instead you push forward into his lips and his hands find their way around your head. You can feel his fingers thread through your brown curls and pull you closer.

From across the Sound, you can hear strands of show music, and you smile.

*

 

You were in love, once.

She was nineteen and you were twenty one, and every time she smiled something good twisted deep in your gut. Thinking of her made your heart threaten to explode out of your chest. Her laugh was like bells, and her smile was just so beautiful.

You taught her how to drive when her parents refused to, and she almost crashed the car twice. You held her hand at the boardwalk, and you laid with her in the park until she had to be home. You told her you loved her at least twice a day, and she always leaned up and kissed your nose and told you she loved you right back. She called you every day, and you longed to hear her voice across the wire on the days you couldn’t see her.

Until one day she stopped calling. You called her, but nobody answered, the phone kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing. You drove to her house, but she wasn’t home; she was out. You went home and sat in silence for days, weeks, and then one day on a whim you dialed her number and she answered. At the sound of your voice, hers cracked and suddenly she was crying into the phone, sobbing as she admitted to you that she’s in love with someone else.

You hung up the phone, and you didn’t call back.

 

*

 

You’re laying on the dock with Gatsby, and his lips are moving against yours, and the only thing you can think about is the feeling in your stomach. It’s not bad, no, it’s a good feeling, an amazing feeling, and you’re afraid. Terrified.

Terrified that you’ll fall in love. Terrified that he’ll leave you. Like she did.

 

*

 

You never go home that night. Instead you go up to Gatsby’s house, he invites you to stay the night. You walk up with him, stepping past all of the drunken men passed out on the lawn, and he leads you to a bedroom on the second floor of his house.

“You can stay in here,” he says, and opens the door for you. “It’s one of my favorite rooms, other than my own.”

The room has an almost Victorian feel, the windows are hung with white sheer curtains that flutter gently in the breeze from the open window. The bed is dressed with white sheets and the walls are hung with photos of Paris, and England, and Germany.

Gatsby notices you looking at the pictures, and he says “I took those.” He walks over to the pictures and straightens one nervously. “What do you think of them?”

“I like them,” you say honestly, and Gatsby smiles broadly. “When did you take them?” you ask.

“During the war,” he says. “A man on the street let me borrow his camera. One of those new fangled ones, the one with the curtain in the back.” Gatsby smiles at the memory. “He taught me how to develop them, and then he sent them to me afterwards.”

You hum appreciatively, and then Gatsby walks over to the dresser and pulls out some clothes. “Here are some clothes for you to wear to bed,” he says, and hands you the outfit. You stand there, holding it, and then he starts. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, “goodnight, Nick.”

“Goodnight Jay,” you say, and he leaves the room. You hear his footsteps walk down the hall, and then he stops and enters a room two down from yours. You pull on the bedclothes and slide into the bed, and sleep comes surprisingly quick.

 

*

 

The next morning you wake up and make your way downstairs, and find Gatsby on the porch, smoking a cigar. He wordlessly offers one to you, and you take it, light it, and then bring it to your lips.

“Nick?” you hear, and you turn to look at Gatsby.

“Yes?”

Gatsby looks down at his lap. “I’m committed, you know,” he says, and your chest feels like it’s going to snap in half. “Her name is Daisy, and she’s a… a lovely woman.” He looks up at you.

The only thing you can do is nod, and he looks away.

“We’re not exactly… together, to say the least. She’s got a husband.” Gatsby’s face flushes, and your heart flutters hopefully. Maybe you do have a chance.

“She’s going to leave him for me,” Gatsby says, and you see a light in his eyes that sparked at the mere mention of Daisy. “We’re going to be getting together tomorrow, all of us, and it’s going to happen then. I’m going to be the happiest man alive.”

Your heart deflates and you blink, then swallow your pain and say “I’m going to go home now,” and you leave. You look back once, and Gatsby’s watching you from his porch, but the second time you look back he’s gone.

When you get back to your house you slump down on the couch and sit, staring at the wall, wishing for solace.

 

*

 

You don’t see Gatsby for a long time, and you don’t expect to. You don’t call him or pay him visits. You let him live his life and you go on living yours. You get a promotion in your job and a twenty-five cent raise, and you forget about Gatsby.

 

*

 

The next time you see him it’s two months later, and you’re out walking by the Sound. You hear someone call your name and so you turn around and see him, walking towards you. You stop moving against your will; your feet just want you to keep moving, but your heart is drawn like a magnet towards Gatsby.

When he gets closer, you can see the gauntness of his face, you can see the hollows of his cheekbones through the paper-thin skin on his face. His clothes, which were once well tailored, are messy, rumpled, and hang off his frame as if they are too loose for his body.

He stops in front of you, and gives you an apologetic smile. You give him one back, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, Nick,” he says, “I’ve had some rough times lately and I’ve needed some time to myself.”

You nod. “It’s fine, Gatsby,” you say, and he cocks his head. You’ve never called him ‘Gatsby’, only ‘Jay’, and he realizes this.

“Nick,” he says, “did I… did I do something wrong? I don’t want to have offended you…”

“No, Jay,” you say curtly, “it’s fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get going. I’m late for…” You trail off as your feet start moving towards your house, and when you reach your steps you turn and find him standing there, wavering on his feet as if he’s going to pass out. You face forward again and enter your house, not thinking twice about the man staring at the back of your head.

*

 

You don’t see Gatsby in person after that, not for a long time. You ignore his party invitations and you don’t answer his phone calls.

The next time Gatsby shows up at your house is almost a year later. The leaves are already changing for the autumn season and the wind has started to blow chilling air throughout Long Island. The rains have stopped pouring down every day, and instead the air is charged with electricity that crackles through the sky as thunder rumbles miles away.

The air outside is mild, and a dry wind is blowing through your house. Your curtains are billowing everywhere and random papers scattered throughout your house are fluttering every which way, like a lost bird. Your doorbell rings and you slide on your glasses and go to open it. When you do, you stop short as your eyes fall on Gatsby standing on your doorstep.

He looks at you for a long moment, then asks, “Can I come in?”

You jerk your head in what you meant to be a nod and step aside, holding the door open more so Gatsby could enter.

He steps past you and walks into your house, and his shoes make soft noises on the hardwood floors.

You shut the door and look at the wall, then follow after him into the kitchen.

*

 

As soon as you enter the kitchen, Gatsby turns to you. “I’m sorry,” he says, and you can tell he’s being sincere. “Nothing’s been going my way, Nick, nothing at all.” He smiles at you, but you can see that it doesn’t reach his eyes, not at all.

Your chest twists as you step towards him. “It’s… it’s alright, Jay,” you say and your hand comes up tentatively to rest on his shoulder.

“I knew you would understand,” Gatsby murmurs and he picks at his fingernail before speaking again. “Daisy… she didn’t…” he trails off, but you know what he is trying to say. “It hurt for a while, but I think I’m getting over it. I’m getting over her.” He looks up at you, and for some reason, some sick reason, you feel like you see some kind of hope in his eyes.

“That’s good,” you say and you push your glasses up further on your face.

Gatsby stands up and turns to face you. “Nick…” He starts walking towards you, and even as you feel the heat of him close to you, you don’t dare move. “Nick…” His hands come up to frame your face, and your breath hitches as his lips press against yours.

Your heart pounds inside your chest as you pull away. “Jay,” you say, your voice hoarse, “you-- you can’t just… just come in here and think that this is okay, you ended things between us, don’t you remember? You said that we were done, and that’s it.”

Gatsby shakes his head. “I didn’t know what I wanted, Nick. I was confused…” His hand comes up to stroke through your hair, and you feel every nerve in your body lean into his touch.

“I missed you, Jay,” you say, and he smiles wanly as he leans in and kisses you again.

*

 

Later that night as you lay in your bed and the wind whips around the room, you breathe a contented sigh. You know that if you turned your head you’d find Gatsby, sleeping with his head pressed up to your side and his nose buried in the nape of your neck. Your legs are entwined with his and your bodies are flush up against one another, and it feels good. It makes you feel better than you’ve ever felt. Everything is peaceful and content, everything is… perfect.

Or so you thought.

*

 

Gatsby leaves the next morning after a cigar and a cup of tea, claiming that he has business to do and that he will stop by later on that evening. You shut the door behind him and go about your daily business.

Around 4 that afternoon, your head jerks up as you hear it: the deafening sound of a gunshot that sizzles and cracks through the air, and somehow you know. You jump to your feet and bolt out of your house. You leap over the fence on Gatsby’s lawn and hurry up the steps to his back porch. You wrench open the back door and stop short. Gatsby’s on the ground, crimson blood pooling from a hole in his chest.

You drop to your knees next to him, and you can feel the blood soak through the fabric of your pants, but you don’t care. You pull him into your arms, and his hands come up to grab at your shirt. His mouth opens like a fish, but nothing comes out except for a small bubble of blood and a wet, gurgling sound.

“Shh,” you say quietly, swallowing back your tears, “I’m right here.” You can see the fear in his eyes, the terrified jerks of his hands as he scrabbles to keep his hands touching you. He coughs once and blood sprays your shirt. “God damnit, Jay,” you murmur, and the tears slip past your barriers and slide down your face.

One of his hands wipes the tears away, and you lock eyes with him. He coughs weakly one more time, and your heart breaks again as you watch the life slip away from him like water in a leaking cup. His eyes dull and his head rolls to the side. His hands drop from where they’re clutched against your shirt, and you hear the wet sound of his breathing cease.

He’s dead, and it feels like your whole world is lost.

*

 

You ring the authorities and they take their time to find their way to Gatsby’s house. While you’re waiting you sit with him, stroking your hand through his soft hair and talking to him. You tell him everything, about your past, present, and future. You tell him your fears, your hopes, your dreams, and after an hour of spilling your soul to a dead body, it feels like he’s actually talking back to you.

“Well, what’d you do that for? You knew it was a stupid idea.”

The police finally arrive and when they walk in it’s with an air of nonchalance, and then you realize that they don’t care, not in the slightest. They make their appropriate notes and remarks, then they send for a coroner and leave you again. The coroner comes and takes Gatsby’s body away, but still there you sit, on his kitchen floor, covered in his blood, talking with Gatsby.

“Go home, Nick,” you can hear him say to you, “Get cleaned up. I don’t matter, just leave me be. It’s alright.”

Hot tears prick once again at your eyelids and you wipe them away with the backs of your hands. “They’re a rotten crowd,” you mutter as you stand up, “you’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

“Thanks, old sport,” you think you hear, and then the voice is gone with the blowing wind.

*

 

They bury Gatsby on a rainy day. The mud in the cemetery is fresh and your black shoes sink into the dirt. A minister reads from a prayer book and you hear the soft sobs of a woman, one of the only people there.

Everyone only liked Gatsby for his parties. Nobody cared about Jay Gatsby, they only pretended to like the man that they knew only as ‘Gatsby’ and nothing more.

The only people that show up at the funeral are you, the crying woman, the minister, and a few men who work at the cemetery. They lean on their shovels, waiting to lower Gatsby into the dark hole in the ground, then cover him up forever.

The minister finishes his prayers and the grounds men go to work lowering Gatsby’s casket into the ground. The woman sobs harder and you walk over to lay down some comfort, no matter how little you may have.

“Excuse me,” you say quietly, and she looks up at you with big brown doe eyes.

“Oh,” she says, sniffling, “I’m sorry, so terribly sorry.” She dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I just… it’s so awful, you know?”

You nod, and turn to look at the casket making its slow decent into the ground. “Absolutely awful.”

“I’m Daisy,” she says suddenly, and holds out her hand to you. You kiss the tips of her knuckles and she flushes, before pulling away. “And you must be Nick. Jay talked so much about you to me.”

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

She nods. “Yes. All the time, he always had something nice to say about you.”

Your chest hurts painfully. “That’s very good to hear,” you choke out, and you turn to face the casket once again, watching as dirt and mud rain down on Gatsby’s casket. In your head, you say goodbye to what could have been eternal happiness. But when is happiness ever truly found?

Besides you, Daisy begins sobbing again, and you turn from her and start walking through the cemetery, past the gravestones, until you’re in a clearing. You don’t stop walking, and you don’t think you ever will.

*

 

Jay Gatsby doesn’t stay dead. He comes to you at night sometimes.

His only appears on the nights when the air is muggy and saturated to the breaking point with moisture. Sweat clings to your forehead and you can only bear to wear your undershirt and a pair of loose fitted shorts.

It’s July 19th and tonight is one of those nights.

Your eyelids close just for a brief moment, and when they open again Gatsby is standing in the center of your bedroom. The curtains are ruffling, the sheer fabric is blowing into your room, and suddenly he appears between the billowing fabric. His eyes bore into you as he stands between the curtains, your eyes meeting his and widening slowly.

His eyes aren’t the same, not at all. They’re almost dead, a dull brown color whereas before he died they used to be full of life. They droop at the corners and darkness spreads from his lower eyelid down to the top of his cheekbone forming dull bags. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on when he died, and you can see the maroon stain of aged and dried blood on his shirt above his heart. His skin is pale and his body is gaunt.

He’s beautiful and absolutely terrifying at the same time.

Your heart aches as he steps forward, away from the window, and cocks his head, peering at you through those deadened eyes.

“Jay,” you murmur, and he straightens his head to look at you.

You can feel your heart pound against your chest with both terror and longing, and you get out of your bed to walk towards him. You ignore the shaking of your hand as you reach out to touch him. As your hand moves across the gap, both of you watch as it comes to rest on his shoulder.

Your jaw drops, and you look at him.

His mouth opens and you hear him pull air into his lungs and exhale it. You hear the gurgles as the oxygen whirls around the hole in his lung from the bullet. He moves his lips to speak and amidst the choked noises you can hear your name.

“Oh, Jay,” you say softly, your face crumpling as your hands come up to frame his face. “You didn’t deserve this, not at all.”

Gatsby looks at you for another long minute, and then he stretches out a hand. His fingers drag across your cheekbone and you feel the coolness of his skin.

He turns to look at the window and then looks back at you and somehow you realize that he has to go. Somehow you realize that you’re not gonna see him ever again.

You feel the familiar tugging in your chest, the pull of your heart.

His hand traces down your cheek and comes to rest right over your beating heart. He holds his hand there for a minute and you fold your fingers into his. Your eyes lock with his for what seems like forever.

But the next second you’re left gripping thin air and Gatsby’s gone. You stand there for a few minutes with tears trailing down your cheeks. Then you wipe them with a cloth and climb back into your bed.

Just as you’re about to fall asleep, you swear that you can hear Gatsby’s voice float through the air.

“Take care of yourself, old sport. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”


End file.
